


Wild, Beautiful

by orphan_account



Series: LJ Kink Meme Fills [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, John is a Saint, M/M, Sherlock is a nightmare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 17:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink meme fill, quelle surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild, Beautiful

They've only been sleeping together for a few months, but John has already worked out that Sherlock doesn't "do sex" during a case. Slows him down, he says. It's a distraction, he says. So John makes do with solitary wanks in the shower, and sleeps alone whilst Sherlock paces the living room or fiddles with test tubes and Bunsen burners. He doesn't mind it too much. 

One thing, though, that's been pretty constant, ever since they met: Sherlock gets in a right snit when he's struggling with a deduction. There's the not eating; the not sleeping; the not speaking; the violin shrieking. Not to mention the hair trigger irritability. Oh, the irritability. 

"John, really, must you insist on breathing so heavily?" Sherlock bites out from his spot at the desk, across the room from John in his armchair. John, to his credit, does his best to ignore it. He huffs a breath, looks up from his Guardian briefly, and turns the page. The paper rustles slightly as he does so. 

"Is it very necessary for you to distract me so? You know I'm working, you know I'm struggling with this," Sherlock whines. "Some consideration, please, John."

"I'll give you bloody consideration," John mutters to himself, as he folds the newspaper and drops it on the floor by his chair. "Alright, you," he says, using both hands to pat his thighs. "Come and sit on my knee, tell Uncle Johnny all about the bad man stopping you from concentrating." He raises his eyebrows with a smirk. 

Sherlock turns slowly in his chair, his eyes narrowed and fixed on John. He blinks a few times, and then stands up. 

John really didn't expect his tall, lanky boyfriend to _actually_ get up, stalk silently across the living room, and drop a bony arse onto his lap, but that's what happens. He really should learn to expect the unexpected, when it comes to a certain Mr Sherlock Holmes. 

He wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, pulling him closer and adjusting his position. 

"Alright, then," John says quietly, resting his cheek against Sherlock's shoulder blade. "What's got your knickers in such a twist?"

Sherlock sighs, a long suffering sigh, the kind that usually emits from John after a long day of apologising for Sherlock's brusqueness during an investigation. "Do you really have to employ such trite turns of phrase, really?" he asks. He leans back into John's embrace, and continues, "seeing as you asked, it's you, that has my metaphorical knickers in a hypothetical twist."

John's forehead crinkles, in confusion. "Me? I was only reading the bloody paper, Sherlock, in my own bloody living room, you actual colossal tit. You don't have a monopoly on..."

Sherlock cuts him off. "No, no. Not the breathing, not the paper. You. _You_. I can't stop thinking about you, it's completely distracting, and I don't know, I don't know. I think about what we do in this room; on the sofa, on the rug, against the wall." He cranes his neck, looking over his shoulder at John. "I think about what you do to me. What I want to do to you."

"OK," is all John can say at first. "But the case, you're on a case, you said nothing whilst you're working..."

"I'm getting nowhere on this case, precisely because I'm denying myself pleasure." He plucks one of John's hands from around his waist and places it on the growing bulge in his slim fit trousers. "Now do you understand?"

John grins, his face still pressed against Sherlock's back. Sherlock can feel the change in his lover's expression. "Excellent, John," he says, his voice dropping to a sultry tone. "I knew you'd catch up. I should also mention, you won't encounter any underwear, should you choose to proceed. No knickers or pants, twisted or otherwise."

Working blindly with quick fingers, John manages to unbutton and unzip Sherlock's trousers. "Your dry cleaning bills aren't that much, are they? Because you're going to get these a bit messy, I think," he explains, as he pulls Sherlock's erection free from the confines of his trousers. 

Sherlock tips his head back, resting it on John's good shoulder. He reaches for John's hand and licks a wide, wet stripe along his palm. John wiggles his fingers teasingly and then wraps them confidently around Sherlock's hot arousal. His own hips shift under Sherlock, the pressure of his own still trapped erection a delicious promise rubbing against his lover's arse. The combined sensations elicit a low moan from the dark haired man, as John begins to work his hand up and down the shaft. 

"Just need to clear your head a bit, don't you, love?" John murmurs. "I can do that for you, I can help."

Sherlock hums quietly in agreement, beginning to rock and squirm slightly in John's lap, fucking the fist around his cock, doing his best to pick up the pace. "Oh, John," he gasps, his eyes squeezed shut. "Oh this, this."

John tightens his grip ever so slightly, adding the twist of his wrist that Sherlock loves when they're wrapped around each other in the wide expanse of their bed. He tilts his head to the side, straining a little to press open mouthed kisses on Sherlock's neck. "You need this, don't you, you need to let go, let yourself feel," John says softly. He swipes the pad of his thumb over the head of Sherlock's cock, spreading the precome that's gathered there. "So wild, so beautiful, but you keep yourself cooped up in that bloody great brain of yours."

Sherlock is beyond words now. He grabs hold of John's free arm; long, graceful fingers digging into his flesh through jumper and shirt. The pressure surprises John into pumping his fist faster. 

"Come on, Sherlock," he coaxes. "Come on, let yourself go, let go. I want to feel you, feel you spill onto my hand, do it for me, yeah? I'll make you clean it up, suck it off my fingers, you love that, don't you?" 

Sherlock shudders and bucks in John's lap, his lower lip clamped between his teeth as his release spurts out in thick ribbons, John's clever fingers working every last drop from him. Most of Sherlock's come has spilled over John's hand, but a few over-achieving drops have found their way as far as Sherlock's knee, slowly seeping into the fabric. They'll definitely need dry cleaning now. 

Sherlock relaxes bonelessly against John's chest, licking slowly at his coated fingers, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. When it does, and with John's hand clean, Sherlock turns to press a kiss to a slightly stubbled jawline. "Thank you," he says, a small sated smile playing on his lips. "It was the caretaker. Call Lestrade."

**Author's Note:**

> Second foray into smut, oh yeah baby.


End file.
